Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen Read Free Book Online

and eight-horse hitches materialize from nowhere, spread out on the dirt. Horse after horse appears, heavy bob-tailed Percherons that clomp down the ramps, snorting and blowing and already in harness. Men on either side hold the swinging doors close to the sides of the ramps, keeping the animals from getting too close to the edge.
    A group of men marches toward us, heads down.
    “Mornin’, Camel,” says the leader as he passes us and climbs into the car. The others clamber up behind him. They surround a bundle of canvas and heave it toward the entrance, grunting with effort. It moves about a foot and a half and lands in a cloud of dust.
    “Morning, Will,” says Camel. “Say, got a smoke for an old man?”
    “Sure.” The man straightens up and pats his shirt pockets. He digs into one and retrieves a bent cigarette. “It’s Bull Durham,” he says, leaning forward and holding it out. “Sorry.”
    “Roll-your-own suits me fine,” says Camel. “Thanks, Will. Much obliged.”
    Will jerks his thumb at me. “Who’s that?”
    “A First of May. Name’s Jacob Jankowski.”
    Will looks at me, and then turns and spits out the door. “How new?” he says, continuing to address Camel.
    “Real new.”
    “You got him on yet?”
    “Nope.”
    “Well, good luck to ya.” He tips his hat at me. “Don’t sleep too sound, kid, if you know what I mean.” He disappears into the interior.
    “What does that mean?” I say, but Camel is walking away. I jog a little to catch up.
    There are now hundreds of horses among the dirty men. At first glancethe scene looks chaotic, but by the time Camel has lit his cigarette, several dozen teams are hitched and moving alongside the flat cars, pulling wagons toward the runs. As soon as a wagon’s front wheels hit the sloped wooden tracks, the man guiding its pole leaps out of the way. And it’s a good thing, too. The heavily loaded wagons come barreling down the runs and don’t stop until they’re a dozen feet away.
    In the morning light I see what I couldn’t last night—the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH . As soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.
    “Watch out,” says Camel, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.
    Three men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.
    “What’s he doing?” I ask.
    “Laying out the lot,” says Camel. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. “Joe! Hey, Joe!”
    A head appears in the doorway.
    “I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use him?”
    The figure steps forward onto the ramp. He pushes up the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth, and goes back inside.
    Camel pats my arm in a congratulatory fashion. “You’re in, kid.”
    “I am?”
    “Yep. Now go shovel some shit. I’ll catch up with you later.”
    The stock car is an ungodly mess. I work with a kid named Charlie whose face is smooth as a girl’s. His voice hasn’t even broken yet. Afterwe shovel what seems like a cubic ton of manure out the door, I pause, surveying the remaining mess. “How many horses do they load in here, anyway?”
    “Twenty-seven.”
    “Jesus. They must be packed in so tight they can’t move.”
    “That’s the idea,” Charlie says. “Once the wedge horse loads, none of ’em can go down.”
    The exposed tails from last night suddenly make